Tey Do Vulom
by The Lone Dovahkiin
Summary: I was never one to believe in any gods other than Sithis when I was growing up, but I would like to believe, now, as I take up writing in much the same way that my master and dear friend Kodlak once did in his final years, that it was Mara's grace, and the will of Akatosh that brought her to me all those years ago, despite the strange circumstances.


**Author's Note:**

 **I started writing this story a few years ago when I was still in high school. It was meant to be a creative twist on the dragon born's story, an attempt (If you will) to make sense of joining different factions and their effects on the story and the dragon born. Due to some unfortunate circumstances involving the passing of a close friend, some issues regarding college, and me just trying to get my adult life started, I received a terrible case of writer's block and haven't written anything in almost three years. I have to say I miss it terribly, and I had such high hopes and ideas for this story.**

 **So, I would like to say that I'm back, and planning to continue writing. Unfortunately with work, I can't make any promises or say that updates will be entirely consistent. We'll see how this goes. With enough encouragement I might just get back out there and continue where I left off. That's where I'd like to be anyway.**

 **I hope you enjoy this story as much as I have writing it. There will surely be more to come. Constructive criticism and feedback is welcomed and would certainly also help how I write as I go along. I would truly like to write a memorable story, and I could certainly use all the help I can get.**

 **Some of the events that take place in-game have been altered to fit this story. This is a sort of twist on the dark brotherhood quest, as well as the eventual path of the Dragon born. Enjoy.**

* * *

14th of First Seed, 4E 263

There were no sounds other than the crisp of footsteps and a gentle wind that Frost Fall morning as I awoke under a blanket of fresh snow, and a woman caressed my frost bitten cheeks. She was fair and blond, and all I could think about was how pretty she was. How wonderful it was to see such beauty in my darkest hour. The year was 4E 179, and I had to have been at least five or six.

When the woman I would later call mother had found me, there was nothing on my person that could have given her an idea of who I was, who I belonged to, or where I was from. But something- fate, maybe? Called her attention to me. I was never one to believe in any gods other than Sithis when I was growing up, but I would like to believe, now, as I take up writing in much the same way that my master and dear friend Kodlak once did in his final years, that it was Mara's grace, and the will of Akatosh that brought her to me all those years ago, despite the strange circumstances.

The woman who called herself my mother was a woman named Astrid, who happened to be the leader of the dark brotherhood sanctuary of Skyrim. As I would come to understand later, Astrid's husband Arnbjorn, though he was acutely active in their bed chamber, was too far in his life to provide Astrid properly with child. They had tried early on in their marriage, until they reached a point where they had decided to give up all together. It was only a few months later that Astrid found me half dead in a snowstorm in Windhelm, and held me to her bosom before a campfire while she waited out the storm with me on the outskirts of the city. She warmed my toes, my nose, my whole being.

When morning came and she still held me, I cried because I was alive and well and had fallen so deeply in love with this woman that it was painful. And even while I cried and soiled her armor, she wiped away my tears, kissed my face and told me it would all be okay.

As it was, I had no recollection of anything prior to the moment that Astrid found me. My head was in so much pain, and I remembered the small pinches on the base of my skull as she did the best she could to stitch the deep wound that was almost my end, but that was it. Those were my first memories of life. They were so wonderful, so reassuring and loving that I felt sorry for those who don't remember their birth, because I was able to remember mine so vividly.

 _"You have such fair hair, and lovely eyes... Like death bells. Yes, Arnbjorn will take a liking to you quickly, my lovely little flower."_

She named me Nonnie, a violet flower. Death bells had always been my mother's favorite, and she always used to remind me which specific qualities of mine reminded her of them: my 'stoic beauty' and eyes of the same shade as the petals. Even when I later discovered my true name and heritage, I couldn't bear to part with the title. Despite the bitter note my Mother and I parted on so long ago, despite many things I couldn't bring myself to forgive her for, there were such kind things she had done for me, such love she had given to me that I couldn't bring myself to forget. They say one's name is the first gift a parent gives their child. To abandon the first gift, she had ever given me? Even I couldn't abandon that, no matter what she may have done.

Once Astrid was sure that I was able to be moved, she packed her things and tucked me into her arms. She placed a cowl over my head, to hide my scar and prevent a misunderstanding with the guards, and took me into the city. She bought me warm clothes and wrapped me in a thick wolf pelt, riding with me on her steed, Shadowmere, all the way back to the sanctuary.

She had spent days trying to get information out of me, of who my parents might have been, if they or perhaps bandits had done this to me, if they would care that I was gone. I don't believe she had any intention of giving me back either way, and if I had remembered anything, she would have slaughtered my parents just to have me by her side. The fact of the matter was; my mind was a clean slate. It made things much easier for the two of us.

When we had made it back to the sanctuary, Astrid took me in her arms and told me we'd be going to meet my new family. The word family stirred something strange within me. Despite my condition, I associated the term 'family' with a mother, and a mother alone. The thought scarred me probably more than it should have, but hearing that there would be more people than just Astrid reassured me that my definition of family probably wasn't accurate.

Alas, it seemed my suspicions had been confirmed. There was a then middle-aged Festus Krex, the great wizard and previous professor of the destruction school of the College of Winterhold. There was Babette, the forever ten vampire who always played with me and talked to me despite herself. Gabriella had just transferred from a sanctuary in Morrowind that had fallen, and was still adjusting to Skyrim.

Then there was Arnbjorn, my big scary teddy of a papa. No one knew how to approach Astrid when she strolled in with a child attached to her hip. They hadn't known her to be the type of woman to fancy herself a child. But Arnbjorn knew. He didn't dare to question her when she jokingly muttered to me that the hairy oaf who smelled like wet dog was going to be my father. There were no objections as he beamed like a beast and hugged me close, calling me things like 'tidbit' or 'lamb shank'.

I never feared him. His beard tickled my face and his musty smell wasn't as terrible as Astrid had jested about. Though much of Arnbjorn's life had consisted of bloodshed and violent rage, to me he was like a warrior hero, and my love for him was almost as great as my love for Astrid.

 _"Right! We're a family now, so you've gotta know some things. Your papa is a werewolf. Now, I might call you things like 'meatball' or 'morsel', because it's hard not to think of you as a snack. But I promise I won't do anything to hurt you. Remember, I trust you, you trust me. Got it, ham-shank?"_

 _"Arnbjorn, what on Nirn are you telling her?"_

 _"Don't worry Astrid, she understands. Right, lamb chop?"_

 _Arnbjorn then poked the child in the stomach, and she giggled quietly, nodding._

 _"Good! Now let me hear you say it! Say 'Papa'!"_

It was then we all discovered another... Well, problem.

I was mute. For a long time, too, until I was a little older. The moment my father told me to call him papa, I was completely frozen with fear. Something in the back of my mind was screaming, begging for me to stay silent. Some unknown memory of something terrifying was trying to fight its way back into my mind, it was trying to tell me why. It was trying to remind me of what happened before Astrid's warm embrace and the vision of her blond angelic self, dusting the snow off of me and sewing my head back together.

I was so afraid of speaking that I bit down on my tongue and bled. _I mustn't speak, I mustn't say a word_ , I thought to myself as Arjbjorn rushed me into the alchemy lab and set me on the table while Festus and Babette worked to clot the bleeding before I went under. Astrid was screaming at Arnbjorn, Arnbjorn was trying to calm Astrid, and Gabriella ran in a tizzy around the lab, trying to find the ingredients for a restoration elixir as Festus barked at her to hurry up.

Eventually, the potion had been made, and they forced me to choke it down with my blood as my tongue began to mend itself back together. Astrid had ordered everyone to leave as she sobbed quietly into my hair, stroking my back and rocking back and forth in the chair. Arnbjorn looked sickly as he picked her up and set her in his lap, rocking all of us together.

 _"Why? Why did you do that? Do you hate me? Is that it? Is that why you did this?"_

 _"Astrid, that's not it. Stop being so hard on yourself."_

I remained silent, sucking on my tongue and listening half-heartedly to the noise. For whatever reason, I just could not allow myself to speak. I knew deep in my soul that there was something terrible waiting to happen if I did. Whatever it was, I knew, I knew that it would only bring terrible things. That it would ruin Astrid, Arnbjorn, and myself. No. If I truly wanted to be with them, if I truly had a chance at happiness, I must be forever silent.

Yes and no questions only worked with me. Astrid and Arnbjorn were glad to know that I could understand them perfectly well, but getting replies from me naturally proved to be difficult. Astrid began teaching me to read and write practically the day after the homecoming incident. She had hoped that this way we could begin communicating properly, even if it wasn't entirely... Well, official I suppose you could say.

Not that I minded. At the time I had no real explanation as to why the thought of speaking crippled me. It put me at ease knowing that nobody was going to push me too much to speak aloud. I did notice, however, everyone's discreet attempts to bring me out of my shell. Festus spent some time with me, teaching me destruction spells and trying to trick me into saying the pronunciations. Babette would do the same, only with the names of ingredients to specific potions. Ones in which she could barely say herself. Arnbjorn thought that it would have been a better idea to scare a sound out of me, but he couldn't scare me no matter how he went about it. He even went as far as transforming and turning a corner to howl in my face. It didn't matter to me what form he took, his promise not to hurt me always stuck in my mind, and I trusted him so that he would trust me, just like he said.

Needless to say, when Astrid saw me smiling and yanking on the big bad wolf's whiskers, she was furious.

That Frost Fall morning had decidedly become my birthday, according to Astrid, and when my second birthday spent with my quirky little family came and went, a new member was added to our family. Fresh out of Black Marsh was my scaly friend Veezara. He was cold and calculating, and he always ignored me whenever I approached him.

Veezara had previously been a member of the shadow scales, an Argonian assassination group that trained its members to kill, right out of the egg. Killing had been all he had ever known. He didn't know how to be friendly, much less how to handle a child.

Within a year, and with a lot of work from everyone, he was greeting everyone as though he had spent his entire life with them. He had even taught me some interesting dagger tips and tricks that I would entertain the family with at dinner. It made up for the lack of speaking, and it seemed to make Veezara happy.

Another Frost Fall birthday passed, and Nazir had come to join the family. As with Veezara, we all made sure to welcome him properly, as though he were another brother returned from a long mission. The near-starved young man hanging over Astrid's shoulder looked incredulous at the cheerful smiles and the open arms, and broke down to his knees and cried. This was a matter that we left Astrid to, as everyone had been mildly surprised by this strange display. Indeed, however Astrid had found him, it must not have been a hospitable situation. To this day I don't know what exactly Nazir was dealing with when he was brought to the sanctuary. All I know is that it was personal, and something only he himself could overcome.

Who would have thought that in only four years' time the half-starved young Redguard who had been drug through our door would grow to be a healthy, sturdy assassin and rise to be Astrid's right hand? I must admit, I was mildly surprised when Astrid came out with the announcement over dinner one night. No one had any complaints. Everyone knew Nazir was the most responsible in the sanctuary, and his strategist skills were flawless. It was a wonder he hadn't been made second in command from day one.

At this point in time, I was thirteen. I communicated with my family through a journal book that Astrid had given me. I had several other tomes that had slowly been filled throughout the years and resided on a bookshelf in Astrid and Arnbjorn's chamber. Sometimes I would catch her reading them when she had nothing better to do, and when she noticed me she would quickly hide it, embarrassed. I thought it was funny, really. It warmed me to know that for someone who didn't get sentimental about things, she would for me. It made that undying adoration for my mother even greater than it already was.

For the last nine, almost ten years, I had been trained vigorously in the art of assassination. When you think about it, it really is an art. Depending on the process (fast, slow, detailed, obscure), the style (bloody, clean, mysterious, obvious), and how it impacts the audience can bring a sense of fulfillment or satisfaction to a murderer. Astrid would start me out on small animals, teaching me how to overlook innocence. I needed to learn to look past any personal conflicts or acts of judgement and to what was necessary to complete my end of the bargain. Later, I would go hunting with Arnbjorn, to tackle larger beasts and learn Arnbjorn's ways to adapt them into my own.

The day of my first assassination required a visit to Windhelm, to see a boy by the name of Aventus Arentino who had been rumored to have performed our sacred summoning, the black sacrament. I never understood why we did such a thing. Festus would always tell me that it had to do with the old ways, though he never got far with his story before Astrid would interrupt him, stating that the old ways were unimportant to a youth such as myself. All that mattered was the future, stepping forward towards an era where the dark brotherhood would be feared to the farthest reaches of Nirn.

That night, Babette and Festus made sure to send me out with potions in case I had gotten hurt. My restoration magic was always a little rusty, and they knew it well. Gabriella had knitted me some winter wear to put on under my robes, at my request. I remembered the weather in Skyrim's north vividly, and didn't want to take any chances. Veezara had packed my weapons belt plentifully, and the variety of tools provided for me made me grin in anticipation. Oh how I prayed the target was as wild as the beasts I hunted with Arnbjorn. The challenge was an absolute delight.

Nazir gave me a map as well as a bag of gold that was meant to assure my transportation to the Windhelm stables, just outside of the city. The map marked the location of Aventus' house as well as the Candlehearth Inn in the center of the city, where I would rest before making my way to the Target's location. I wrote him a lengthy letter of thanks, which he only crumbled and threw back at me with a teasing grin.

 _"Don't try to butter me up with honeyed words. Fulfilling your duties as a dark brotherhood assassin is all the thanks I need."_

Once outside the sanctuary, I noticed a carriage that Astrid had arranged to take me to Windhelm. Astrid cried like a proud parent as she hugged me, lifting me from behind onto the carriage and kissing my cheeks under my cloak. Though now I was fifteen years old, my apparent Breton blood stunted much of my growth. That didn't mean that I wasn't skilled enough to hop onto the carriage on my own, and my stubborn teenage self was so embarrassed and irritated with her behavior.

 _The young girl, embarrassed, gently pushed her mother away, whipping out her journal and scrawling something in it quickly with charcoal._

 ** _Mother, please stop fussing over me. I will be just fine. I've been practicing for this day for a long time._**

 _Astrid scoffed, brushing some of the child's fine blond locks out of her face. "Yes, yes you're right. A mother, however, has a right to fuss over her child. And if you think me a mess now, just wait until you come home wearing the blood of your prey. I don't know if I'll be able to control myself."_

 _The girl made a small, defeated noise. She rolled her eyes and quickly scrawled again._

 ** _I know. Oh, how I look forward to it. I must be off now. Goodbye, Mother._**

The carriage jolted to life as I took a seat on the bed of hay that had been meant to feed the horse. Astrid waved to me in the distance, and I smiled to myself. I knew I couldn't let my family down. They expected great things from me, after working so hard and training me to be the perfect assassin. I settled myself further into the hay and fiddled with my tool belt thoughtfully. How was I to go about it? It had to be good. Maybe I'd sever the jugular, get enough of a blood spray going to traumatize the poor sod who would discover the body. Maybe I'd write a message in blood? It wouldn't have been for any particular reason, other than to frighten the hell out of someone. Oh, the possibilities were endless.

One thing that I knew for sure was that the dark brotherhood was no longer the guild that it once was. The most I had ever gotten out of my Mother was that many years ago, there were dark brotherhood sanctuaries located all over Tamriel. Since then, the dark brotherhood's ranks have dwindled, and the only ones left were the eight of us at the sanctuary in Falkreath, and someone called 'The Keeper'. Festus would always grumble about how the dark brotherhood used to be more than just a group of sell-swords. It wasn't always about the coin; the dark brotherhood used to be a religious cult of some kind. One that worshiped the dread father; Sithis.

Regardless of what the brotherhood had been, I always remembered what my mother told me; there was no point in holding on to the past. Only look to the future, take the time to see if what once was could become something even greater.

* * *

The elderly woman ceased her writing to set the quill back into the ink well and flex her hand. The rattles had been doing a number on her writing. A blistering pain set briefly into her wrist. She sucked in her bottom lip, standing from her writing desk and heading towards her bed. She would continue her writing in the morning, perhaps have her son do the writing for her, as he had been the one so eager to hear about her life.

She pulled the bed sheets back and rested herself on the bedding, leaning over to blow out the light from the candle on her small table. In the brief flicker of light just before the small flame had been extinguished, her eyes flashed a dull shade of gray-violet as they glossed over, losing themselves in the image of a memory.

As she rested her head against the pillow and stared up at the black abyss around her, she imagined the pain in her joints replaced with the feeling of her bones shrinking, her skin pulling tighter, until it was stretched smooth, free of age spots and wrinkles. She imagined the cropped, wiry mess of her hair growing longer, softer, and darkening to the color of sunlight. She imagined as she fell into a deep dreamy slumber, a time when she was young and ruthless, and painted the walls of an orphanage red with a cruel old woman's blood.


End file.
